by Donna Bishop
“I feel bad about it, but I can hardly process the health crisis my father is facing. I haven’t even told my parents that my marriage is over. I don’t want to burden them with it, plus there’s absolutely nothing they can do to help. I’m doing okay with all that but have let myself become obsessed with finding out about the Norwegian connection. I dialed 411 and asked for information for Pickle Creek, Saskatchewan, the town where Dad grew up. I asked for the new number of my great Aunt Else Andersen. She’s in a care home now.
“As I expected, coming from a defunct family where nobody shares stories or keeps in touch, Aunt Else wasn’t very helpful, especially when I reminded her who my dad was. But she did give me the number for another of Dad’s aunts, Greta, who turned out to be a gold mine.
“This sweet old lady was married to a Mormon fellow — she converted and has spent the past forty years contacting all the Norwegian relatives, trying to patch together a family tree. She was thrilled beyond words that I was calling to ask about the family. She wanted to know all about my family line as well, so she could add all of us to the Mormon Census. Apparently, they take great pride in having the most accurate census in the world.
“Anyway, Celeste, I for one am so grateful for the Mormons because it’s all true. There was a Hannah, there was an Ingaborg and there was a Finn! There was a steamship wreck in 1855 and nine-year-old Hannah was found by the Kleppens and raised for three years, until her wealthy relatives came to claim her and take her and Ingaborg to Scotland! Oh my God, I nearly forgot — Aunt Greta swears that Hannah’s family were the Rothchilds!”
“What? No freaking way — the famous Rothchild family?”
“Yes, that’s what she says and I have no reason not to believe her.”
“Holy Hallelujah, Liv. This is so fantastic and wonderful and crazy! You swear you didn’t know of this story before now?”
“I had a weird inkling — all through our sessions with Hannah I’ve had the sensation that parts of her story were vaguely familiar from my childhood, as if I’d read them in a storybook or overheard some adult conversation I wasn’t meant to hear. But Aunt Greta has documentation. She says my ancestors, the Kleppens, were offered a sizeable reward for saving Hannah’s life and they apparently refused it for religious reasons. She says that Hannah, Ingaborg and Finn were musicians — she wasn’t sure what instruments they played, but they performed all over Europe. Ingaborg and Finn were married and started a family line that leads to me. She’s going to send me copies of everything she has.
“Oh, and Celeste, the most amazing thing — Aunt Greta says she inherited her great grandmother’s old jewellery box, and found a pendant made of black stone with three little figures and a sun carved into it.”
“Ingaborg’s necklace? Is she sending that to you as well?” Celeste exclaims.
“Yes, and I absolutely cannot wait to wear it around my neck as a talisman, and to pass it, along with the story that goes with it, to my daughters when they’re grown.”
Throughout this animated debriefing, the two friends have been at the kitchen table, enjoying delicious dill and garlic infused borscht and aromatic, yeasty bannock smothered in honey.
They rise to tidy the kitchen together, both feeling satisfied and exhilarated.
“When we first encountered Hannah, I couldn’t have imagined the relevance her story would have to your life,” Celeste says, her voice conveying her wonder.
“The most startling realization that came to me is that, by saving Hannah, my ancestor Ingaborg essentially saved my soul.”
“Wow.” They sit in silence briefly, considering the implications of that statement.
Celeste says, “And then to learn that Ingaborg and Finn created a new generation by tying the two family-lines together, which led to your dad being born and then you… it’s incredible. You have some good, strong roots after all.”
Liv’s face glows with pride, then she smiles at her friend, “Well, mixed in with the crazy, religious and completely dysfunctional ones!”
They both ponder for a moment then Liv continues, “Hannah was able to re-create herself and her life story after unimaginable trauma and loss. Ingaborg was able to escape the ties of her religious family. Just as Hannah’s adversity forged her own strength, mine will too.”
25
~ Balm of Gilead ~
It’s rare for a marriage to end easily and Liv and Ross’ was no exception. One night, in the depths of February, Liv is cleaning up after dinner when he shows up at the farm, laden with food and gifts. He says he’s come for a visit with the kids, but as the evening progresses, it’s pretty obvious he hopes to reinsert himself into his family. He’s lucid and cheerful. He looks handsome and his eyes have a bit of their old spark. She notes that he’s wearing a fitted denim shirt she bought him for his last birthday. She can feel herself warming to his intellect and charisma.
He plays with the children until bedtime, then tucks them in with a wildly funny story, complete with farting noises. They’re giddy and delighted — she can imagine them building fantasies of their parents getting back together.
Before he leaves, they stand together in the kitchen.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said, his eyes flashing with that familiar mocking amusement.
“No, it was great,” she said. “The kids were so happy to spend time with you. But I would prefer you let me know when you’re coming, that’s all.” She’s aware that she softened her message with that last addition.
“I’m doing really well, Liv. I feel like I have some control again.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, Ross, I really am.”
She knows from her support classes at the hospital that people with bipolar disorder can enjoy periods of stability, but if they go untreated, they’ll return to mania and depression.
Later, lying in the darkness, unable to sleep, she momentarily toys with the idea of trying to reconcile with him. The idea of starting a new life with her three kids is daunting. But she believes in the influence of the strong women from her past — Hannah with her courage and resilience, the intuitive, free-spirited Moragh and Veda, with her sureness and understanding. They compel her to take up the thread of her life and weave it herself. She resolves to no longer allow herself to fall sway to Ross’ fine words. Another of her Grandma Olive’s sayings pops into her head: “Don’t believe what people say, believe what people do.” She resolves to deal with him kindly, yet decisively.
The next time he visits, a few weeks later, he calls in advance. As he passes her in the doorway, he flashes her a brilliant smile and hands her a single red rose. She catches a whiff of alcohol on his breath. He tells her an amusing but far-fetched story about how he is helping his friend, a First Nations chief, deal with some land claims issues. His tone and speech are on the manic side and she has learned to be wary of the impassioned, grandiose demeanor he’s portraying.
She stays in the kitchen while he has his time with the kids. She gathers her courage, calls inwardly to Moragh for support. She waits until he’s about to leave and catches up with him outside.
“Ross. I want you to know that from now on, when you come, it will be to see the kids — not me. You need to be respectful to me. And you need to be sober. Our marriage is over — and not just because you refuse to take treatment. My love and trust for you has been irreparably damaged. I still really feel that ending our marriage is the absolute right thing to do, and the sooner the better, for all of us.”
He crumbles in front of her in the driveway. All his brilliance, his arrogance, his confidence falls away to reveal a thin, emaciated, weeping wreck. Her heart clenches with compassion, but she can give it no attention — she can’t give him hope on a path that will lead nowhere.
In March, they enter into divorce mediation through the provincial Family Justice Centre. Ross is angry and combative. He argues vehemently for joint custody of the children, but with his mental health and substance abuse issues, Liv presents a far str
onger case for full custody, even with her minimal income. The most she will concede is joint guardianship and generous visitation. They agree to divide their assets and debts evenly. The farm will be sold.
Liv is stretched thin between caring for the kids and the farm and travelling into the city for mediation sessions, as well as group therapy at the sexual assault centre.
I knew divorce could be ugly and hard but I had no idea how much time and energy it takes to create a brand-new life for four humans, let alone a dozen animals.
Her energy springs from a deep well inside. With faith that well won’t dry up, she puts one foot in front of the other, crossing things off the many lists she’s made. Liv puts her application in for the bachelor of Social Work program. She’s always been drawn to the helping professions and believes this is the right path for her education and her career. She isn’t sure which stream of social work — maybe child protection, advocating for women’s rights, maybe mental health counselling or community development — all of these areas excite and inspire her and give her the fuel she needs to push forward. Gandhi’s words echo her hopes and beliefs: “As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world — as in being able to remake ourselves. In doing so, we can change the world.” I’ve been so lucky to have the support I needed to change myself, now I want to give that to others.
She scours the newspapers, looking for a place to rent and jobs to apply for. She’ll need to work to earn money to get through university, as she won’t be able to count on Ross for any kind of support money. Prior to moving to Little Mountain, she’d worked with special needs children. Now, she freshens her resume and puts feelers out to some of her old contacts. She begins the daunting task of preparing for the move, sorting through the children’s clothes and toys and taking bags of things to the local church thrift store.
Liv spends many long, dark winter evenings working on sewing projects — making pajamas for all the kids and creating a special gift for Celeste. She even fixes her favourite blue sweater — the one she snagged on the fence so many months ago. She holds it up to inspect her work. The repair isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty darn good. She slips it over her head and pushes her arms down through the sleeves. Finally, she can wear it again.
March and April come and go. Ross remains in Twin Rivers — he still has lots of friends who are willing to offer him a place to stay, even though it always ends badly. She hears stories of his escapades, and they make her mad at first, and then just sad. He’s apparently dating lots of women, some even his own age, which Liv finds interesting. She’s not jealous anymore, which confirms for her that she no longer loves him in that way.
Later in May, things start to fall in place. She’s offered a job managing a respite home for special needs children beginning in July. She’s found a place to live — the main floor of an old house on a tree-lined street, right near an elementary school. The four of them will have to share two bedrooms, and she’ll be back to the laundromat lifestyle, but the home will be a home and it will be hers. She takes possession on June 1, but doesn’t move right away — she wants the children to finish out the school year in Little Mountain. So, while the kids are away all day, she slowly continues to dismantle the dream home and the good life she and Ross had built. Celeste and some of her other friends pitch in to help and on those days there’s laughter, but it’s bittersweet.
The chickens are sent to live with Deanna, who promises to deliver fresh eggs to Liv and visit her in Twin Rivers whenever possible. Liv forces herself not to think about what will happen to her gentle cows once they become part of some rancher’s herd. She worries about the pigs, as she’s fond of them, but they were destined for the freezer anyway. She found an excellent home for Majic — an old friend who lives in Alberta now is thrilled to take him for her horse-crazed daughter. He will be prized and preened.
“Oh, my brilliant, understanding Majic,” Liv weeps into his thick silver mane, taking in his scent one last time. “I’ve shared so much with you… and you’ve left an imprint on my heart forever.” Majic places his velvety muzzle squarely on Liv’s chest and lingers there for a few moments. He knows it’s goodbye. He allows himself to be calmly led away by the very excited young woman who will have so much time and love to share with him.
One day in late June, Celeste arrives at Liv’s to find the door wide open, letting in fresh, warm air. She calls out as she walks in. Her footsteps land loudly on the wood floor of the living room. The moving truck has hauled away all the larger furniture and appliances, and all the art has been removed from the walls. The house has a cold, hollow feeling. She calls out again and hears a distant reply from the basement.
She finds Liv downstairs in the kids’ bedroom, eyebrows knit in exasperation. She’s sitting on the floor amidst a pile of children’s artwork and papers.
“Hey Liv. The door was open. Are you okay?”
Liv sighs, “Come in.”
Celeste sits across from her on the floor.
“I was trying to create a box of stuff for each kid, just the things that hold the best memories. But at this rate I’ll need a boxcar for each of them.”
“I know. It’s hard to throw any of it away. I just recently got my girls to take care of the stuff they left behind. I’ve been studying the Buddhist practice of emptiness, letting go of attachments to things and feelings. Jacques is worried I’m going to get rid of everything in the house, including him,” she laughs.
“I tried to get the kids to help. Micah put a giant firetruck in his, Leah piled hers with her stuffy puppies and books and Molly refused to even begin the task, loudly declaring that her babies are not going to be put in a box.”
“Wow, this is a lot,” Celeste says, surveying the pile of paper, toys and craft projects before them. “How about we go through the school and art stuff together? We can appreciate each one, sort of honour them, and then maybe it’ll be easier to pick a sample for each of the kids.”
“You know, that might really help — sort of like giving each of their creations that last bit of attention.”
Celeste holds up a handmade Mother’s Day card — orange construction paper adorned with a crooked figure with a mass of yellow curls. Inside, in Leah’s tidy kindergarten handwriting is printed in purple crayon “Yor the besd.”
“That’s a keeper, despite — or is it because of — the bad spelling?”
The task turns out to be a pleasant one with Celeste along to appreciate each Halloween pumpkin, spelling test and school journal. It’s noon by the time they work through it all. They carry the stuff upstairs — three plastic bins of memories and two garbage bags full of discards.
Liv gestures at a stack of boxes in the corner of the dining room.
“Ross’ stuff — it’s mostly paper and a ton of books. Even his master’s degree thesis is in there. I don’t know what he’s going to do with it all. The last I heard, he’s planning to work as a shepherd on Saturna Island.”
“Not your problem, remember?” Celeste says breezily. “Come on. I brought us some lunch. Let’s eat outside in the sun.”
She unpacks sandwiches loaded with avocado, cheese, tomato and sprouts on her homemade bread, with iced tea to wash it down. They sit under the apple tree — Liv has decided to leave the Adirondack chairs here for the next owners. The tree’s pink blossoms are fading — white petals flutter like confetti on their picnic.
It’s a glorious day — the meadow is a brilliant green and the cottonwoods along the river are leafing out and fluorescent. She raises her face to the sun. She loves this land. It breaks her heart to see her garden plot fallow, studded with dead stalks and burgeoning weeds. Last year at this time she had already planted — the rich soil was freshly dug, with promising rows of seedlings. Just before the unravelling.
Liv wraps her arms around herself — she’s taken to giving herself hugs recently. She feels something stuck to the back of her right arm clinging to the wool of her sweater and pulls
it off. It’s one of the sticky yellow husks from the cottonwoods that litter the property in the spring. She brings it to her nose, breathing in its acrid, complex aroma.
“That’s a smell I will always link with this property. I’ll miss it.”
Celeste begins to chuckle.
“Oh, that’s just perfect, Liv. That’s Balm of Gilead! Remember from Moragh’s story? In ancient times, it was believed to be the most powerful ointment for healing physical, emotional and spiritual pain. The irony is, nothing can heal all pain — some of it sticks to you, just like those little husks. And you just have to cope with it — exactly like you are right now. You pull them off, you’re soothed and amazed by the smell, and you move on.”
“Wow. That’s pretty cool. And, you know, I feel like I’ve banished so much of the pain from my early life. I know I can do this. I don’t want to leave this place — and yet I know I have to go. I have absolutely loved living here.”
“I know, Liv. I wish you could stay. But you have stuff to do, a new life to live. Trust me, we are all going to be living vicariously though you, so you’ll be forced to keep in touch and visit often.”
“I brought you something to take along for your new home.” Celeste gathers the picnic things and carries them to her car. She returns with a large, flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. It seems heavy from the way she carries it.
She places it in front of Liv, who quickly unwraps it.
“The Buddha stained glass!” Liv launches herself onto Celeste, hugging her fiercely.
“I guess I hinted often enough,” she says with a laugh. “It’s beautiful beyond words. Thank you.”
“You are so welcome.” Celeste says, and sighs. “I am going to miss you.”